


Going Through the Motions

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, i don't want to definitively set any yet as i'm not entirely positive of them all, more characters and relationships to be added as it progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human contact can help to alleviate pain; and they're just kids, after all.</p><p>They do the best they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Obliviate

_"The Greek word for suffering is nostos. Algos means suffering. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return,"_

* * *

 

 

"Hermione! Your friends are here!"

Mrs. Granger's call comes bright and clear up the stairs, muffled only by Hermione's closed door, and she can hear the smile in her mother's voice.

Lower tones - laughter and men's words - follow the call and Hermione closes her eyes a moment, picturing Fred and George engaged in conversation with her parents, undoutbedly demonstrating one of their latest pieces of merchandise for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Her father will be laughing, her mother smiling along with him, both quietly fascinated - as they always are - by the parts of their daughter's world they will never be able to understand in any way but the distantly abstract.

"Coming, Mum!" Hermione finally calls back, praying the shake of her voice is audible only to herself. She finishes zipping the suitcase she's packed, shoving the small beaded bag of books into her coat pocket before pulling the suitcase off the bed. It's not necessary, of course; not with the undetectable extension charm she's managed to perfect on the bag, but she's determined to make things as normal and human for her parents as she possibly can - even making a point of carrying the thing down the stairs instead of casting a  _Leviosa_ charm.

 _Swish and flick._ The echo of the memory is sudden and fleeting when it comes to her, there and then not, but with a force like a whip to the gut, the air knocked from her lungs by the strength of the nostalgia. The longing to crawl into her father's lap where she had once been so safe is so overwhelming that she stops where she stands on the stairs, one hand on the bannister and the other on her suitcase.

"Hermione? You all right?" Comes from the bottom of the steps, and she opens her eyes to find Fred looking up at her, her father stepping in beside him with his glasses low on his nose.

"Yeah," she gives, forcing what she hopes is a passable smile onto her face. "Just a little sad, I suppose. It's an odd feeling, knowing that this will be the last time," she continues, not quite lying - not really lying at all. It will be the last time she leaves her home, and her parents, like this - they just don't know all the details. Neither does Fred, but he knows more than her parents, and he considers her a moment before giving a nod. She's going to the Burrow for the last weeks of summer, sure, but she won't be going back to Hogwarts when the leaves start to turn. She isn't sure she'll ever go back, and feels another twinge of sadness, knowing that she'd not truly appreciated the train to Hogwarts the previous year for what it had been; her last.

"Sad, but happy?" Her father suggests, offering a hopeful, encouraging smile. It feels like another blow, and Hermione has the idle consideration of all the invisible bruises she's accumulating; broken vessels never to burst visibly against skin, blood never blooming but tender nonetheless, perhaps forever. "You've grown up, darling. Miles between the little girl who got her letter and the woman standing here now," he continues, unaware of the knife he's twisting. Hermione can't stop tears, now, and lets out a dead sort of laugh as she wipes at her eye, the base of her palm pulling uncomfortably at the skin as she pushes the saltwater back to her hairline. She tries to give him a smile, anyway, setting shaky fingers back on the bannister. "She'll always be my little girl, though," her father amends, and holds a hand out to her like an invitation. She descends the last few steps, allowing his fingers to clasp hers as Fred takes her suitcase. "Doesn't matter how grown up you get, Hermione. You can always come home to us," he says, the words muffled into her hair as he embraces her. Hermione hides her face against his chest, trying to breathe through the need to sob aloud at how untrue it is, unbeknownst to him.

She lets her father comfort her a moment; giving herself a few blissful seconds of pretending his arms are as impenetrable as they had been when she was young, and then pulls away to find him beaming at her.

"Thanks, Dad," she gives, ruefully proud when her voice doesn't crack.

"'Sides, 'Mione," Fred breaks in, as charmingly comfortable even in a moment of such familial intimacy as he always is. His hand comes to run the pad of his thumb against her cheek, wiping away a tear, as he speaks; "It's only the beginning of the end," he says, and she smiles in spite of herself.

The beginning of the end. It's a bittersweet statement, but nonetheless comforting; the beginning of the end of the constant fear, of never quite being safe. It's a nice thought, if perhaps it comes off a little darkly, and Hermione allows herself to be lead to the kitchen.

She's confronted there with a picture of absuredly domestic peace; George and her mother sitting at the table, having tea, and as her father passes by George he claps the younger man on the shoulder. Hermione can't help, for a moment, wishing her life had been normal - that she'd been able to bring a boy home to her parents, watch her father try and intimidate him. She'd had a crush on Fred once, for a few months in her fifth year, and she gives a soft snort of a laugh as she considers the image.

George turns, as does her mother, both smiling at her.

"All right?" George asks, and Hermione nods.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a moment, if you two don't mind?" She asks. She's supposed to travel by side-along apparation with the boys to the Burrow, something she's done with Mr. Weasley every summer for the past five years. She can apparate on her own, of course, now she's seventeen, but won't be able to enter the protective enchantments without someone who's already been within them - namely, the twins.

"Course, 'Mione," Fred agrees, speaking for himself and his brother. His hand brushes between her shoulderblades as he passes her, tugging the suitcase along with him, and she watches them both kiss her mother's cheek, shake her father's hand, before they go out the front door.

Hermione's fingers tighten around her wand in her pocket, and she smiles at her parents. "I'll miss you both," she starts, and her voice cracks, sharp and betraying.

"Oh, sweetheart," her mother gives, coming forwards to hug her. "We'll see you at Christmas, darling, and you can always write all you'd like; we'll reply to every letter," she assures, her lips pressing to the top of Hermione's head as Hermione's father's arms encircle them both. She neither confirms nor denies the statement, simply hugging them both back the best she can with one arm, refusing to let go of her wand and lose her nerve, painfully aware that this may well be the last time she's held by them.

And then, in a breath and a rush, she lets go. Her mother's fingers glide smoothly through her hair before her hand drops, and her father squeezes her shoulder.

"We love you, Hermione," her mother says, and her father nods, and Hermione pulls her wand from her pocket.

"I love you both, too," she returns, sure she's never meant the words with the same definitive clarity that she does now, and raises her wand.

_"Obliviate,"_

 

 


	2. The World is a Fine Place and Worth Fighting For

Hermione gasps when they arrive, pulled with a jerk from the ice cold suspension of apparition and back to the heat of the summer sun, and she feels Fred's hand grab her shoulder when she stumbles forwards.

"You all right there, 'Mione?" Asks George, not so subtly pulling the handle of her suitcase from her fingers, and Hermione nods, blinking as she tries to catch her breath. It's mildly embarrassing to be as thrown by the apparition as she is, but it's been months since she apparated anywhere - preferring to drive, or walk; anything that drew less attention.

"Yes, I'm fine," she assures, nodding as she takes a final steadying breath and drops her hand from Fred's, turning to put it out to George. "And I can take that, George," she gives, and he raises an eyebrow, apparently momentarily considering protest before sighing, and giving the handle back over.

"All right," Fred says, drops an arm around Hermione's shoulders to turn her in the proper direction, taking a step and forcing her to take one right along with him. "To the Burrow, then," he declares, and Hermione makes the trek through the field in silence, half-listening to the banter taking place above her head while the rest of her attention devotes itself to reliving the echo of her own spell, and the fog that had filled her parents' eyes. Everything, gone; memories of her, memories of their lives - she'd replaced it the best she could, with the most detail she could muster, and left before it had all settled in, leaving them standing like zombies in the kitchen with an awful beat of an ache in her chest.

It's such an odd concept, to know that she doesn't exist to them; like the proof of her existence is no longer palpable, tangible.

Shouting pulls her from her thoughts, and Hermione looks up with a start, realizing they must have crossed the barriers when she sees the Burrow, towering precariously skywards - and two redheaded figures running towards her from it, Molly appearing in the doorway behind them.

"Hermione!" Is shouted again, and her smile is automatic - she can't help the relieved happiness that floods her chest, pounding in determined rhythm against her ribcage as she lets go of her suitcase and runs. They practically throw themselves together, she and Ginny, the collision of their collarbones offering a security Hermione hasn't felt since she hugged the girl goodbye on Platform 9 3/4. Ginny's arms wrap her ribs, forcing Hermione to push slightly on her tiptoes to hug the girl properly, her own arms around the somewhat taller girl's shoulders. "I missed you," is mumbled to her neck, and Hermione croaks a laugh, hugs Ginny tighter and closes her eyes on tears she can't define the reason for. It could be happiness, it could be relief, it could be grief - it could be any one of the swirl of emotions she barely feels she can breathe around, but whatever the cause, Ginny's lips press into her neck and Hermione smiles.

"I see how it is then, Ginevra. No love for your brothers," one of the boys offers from behind, and Hermione feels Ginny lift her head, an expletive shot to them both over Hermione's shoulder before the redhead finally releases her.

"Really, Hermione," Ginny says, finds her hand and links their fingers together. "I'm glad you're here."

Hermione nods, smiles again, wordless because she doesn't trust herself to speak, and then looks to Ron, standing about a foot away with his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes downcast, though she's sure he's still looking at her, exuding awkwardness.

"Ronald," she gives, glad when her voice doesn't crack, and he looks up, offers that ridiculously cute sheepish half smile he always gives her, like part of him thinks he's about to be reprimanded. She supposes she can't really blame him for it; more often than not he _is_ about to be reprimanded - but then he puts his hand out to her, taking an single step forward to half close the distance between them, and she rolls her eyes. "Idiot," she mumbles under her breath, too happy to have the tangibility of their safety at her fingertips to waste time with their unending awkwardness, and dives forwards. She wraps her free arm around his shoulders, pushing up higher on her toes than she needed too with Ginny - who still holds Hermione's free hand captive - and hugs Ron, torsos pressed flush together. It takes a few seconds, but finally his arms wrap around her - tight, hard and warm, holding her a moment like he thinks she might disappear, and she tightens her own hold on him in response. His hands span out flat against her back, then slide to fit around her sides, fingers spread wide.

"Glad you're safe, 'Mione," is muttered into her hair, and she nearly chokes on the sudden need to sob into him, to tell him what she's done. She doesn't do it - but she does cough, turns her head in to rest her forehead against the column of his neck, and she can feel him inhale, hold his breath. His lips brush against the top of her head and then he releases her, his hands dipping low to her hips only for seconds before they're not touching anymore. Hermione smiles at him, hopes it's convincing - conveys that she really is happy to see him, to touch him, even if her heart feels like it's breaking, and the grin he gives her back tells her it is.

It's then that she glances past him, sees Mrs. Weasley approaching with her own warm grin. Ginny still hasn't let go of her hand, but Ron steps aside as his mother comes up, sets a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You look lovely, dear," she says, eyes bright and knowing, and Hermione feels herself flush even as she smiles back - again, she feels the urge to tell all like the words are vomit, fighting their way up her esophagus with bile and burning. Again, she doesn't, and Mrs. Weasley tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "A bit thin though, I think?" She adds, raising an eyebrow, and it's so absurdly normal that Hermione can't help but laugh, bringing a hand up to run her fingers under her eye and wipe away tears she doesn't want to be asked about.

"Maybe, Mrs. Weasley," she agrees, and the woman smiles at her again, nodding as she pulls her forward with the light grip on Hermione's shoulder, her hand drifting to run down Hermione's back and usher her past and to the house.

"Please, dear; Molly," she corrects, as she always does, and Ginny squeezes her hand again, coming up to curl her free fingers over Hermione's shoulder, as gentle but pointed about the forced steps forward as Fred and Mrs. Weasley had both been.

"Oh, now she wants me to carry her suitcase,"

"Shutup, Fred,"

The back and forth banter continues behind her, and Hermione smiles again, her cheeks beginning to burn in the best sort of way with how much of it she's done. Her throat burns, too, the lump in it pronounced and painful, and she knows the ache in her chest is psychosomatic, but knowledge of that fact does nothing to ease the feeling.

"Fleur's bought us a bottle of Firewhiskey; we'll all bunk in my room, tonight," Ginny informs her quietly under her breath, and Hermione offers her a sidewards glance, one eyebrow raised skeptically. Ginny laughs, drops her hand from Hermione's shoulder as she pulls away and shrugs. "It wasn't my idea," she says, puts the hand up, palm out, like defense, and Hermione can't help but laugh, too. It feels good - it feels extraordinarily, inexplicably wonderful, to laugh right along with Ginny, completely sure it was, in fact, her idea. The ice between Fleur and Ginny had melted as it had melted between Mrs. Weasley and Fleur, and Hermione's glad of it - they're all going to need all the love they can get, and she knows it. It's why they're touching so much; a year ago, she never would've had that sort of contact with any but Mrs. Weasley, maybe Ginny - but now, it feels important. Necessary, even to touch as much as they all possibly can. There's something so comforting about it - but again, though Hermione knows the facts, it doesn't ease the feeling, or the need, so she reaches out to bring a hand to the back of Ginny's neck, tilting her head forward to she can press her lips to the girl's forehead a moment before they duck under the threshold of the Burrow.

"I don't believe you," she informs her, and Ginny laughs as she finally releases their hands, turning to walk backwards and face Hermione as they clear the doorway.

"You never do," she says, runs a hand through bright locks to pull them away from brown eyes. "I don't think I'm guilty of half the things you think I am," she adds, and Hermione rolls her eyes, turning around as well to watch the twins make a show of pulling her suitcase inside.

"What've you even got in here, 'Mione?" Fred complains in an exaggerated groan, making a dramatic show of mopping his forehead as they let go of it.

"Books," she informs them bluntly, a lie, but the expected answer - and a joke - and breaks into a smile when they both groan again, and then pass by her, patting her on either shoulder in turn, leaving Ron standing next to the suitcase.

"Ginny's room," he says, like she hasn't stayed there every summer since they met, and pulls his wand out before she can, aiming it at the base of the case. "Wingardium Leviosa," he mutters, near perfect in the swish of his wand, and grins proudly at himself as he starts up the stairs with it. Again, the warmth blooms in her chest, throwing itself with a vehemence against the steadily growing gnaw of an ache that sits just below her heart, and she shakes her head as she starts up the stairs behind him, Ginny following.

"Supper will be about ready in an hour," Mrs. Weasley calls after them, and Hermione tries not to listen for the echo of her own mum's words when she hears it.


End file.
